


discipline

by crimson_headache



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Corona is a Brat, Discipline, Dominance, F/F, Obedience, Post-Gideon the Ninth (Locked Tomb Trilogy), Spanking, Vaginal Fingering, no beta we die like cavs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:01:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29757945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimson_headache/pseuds/crimson_headache
Summary: Your muscles burn, your back itches where the rough fabric of your shirt clings to your sweat-damp skin, and your hair, which you had so carefully braided that morning, has worked its way loose and into your eyes. The only part of this that you do not hate is the weight of the rapier in your hand as Camilla the Sixth puts you through your paces again and again. You have been at this for hours, and you are not getting any better. There are several reasons for this, but the main one, you have to admit, is that you are not trying.“Sloppy,” Camilla says as you fumble the final thrust and stick the dummy a full two inches to the right of the heart. “Do it again.”---Camilla is training Coronabeth to use her rapier properly. Corona is being a brat. Camilla resorts to other forms of discipline.
Relationships: Camilla Hect/Coronabeth Tridentarius
Comments: 4
Kudos: 40





	discipline

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blackrose_juri](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackrose_juri/gifts).



> A gift for my darling wife, Rusty.
> 
> Presented with thanks to everyone who has shamelessly encouraged me.

Your muscles burn, your back itches where the rough fabric of your shirt clings to your sweat-damp skin, and your hair, which you had so carefully braided that morning, has worked its way loose and into your eyes. The only part of this that you do not hate is the weight of the rapier in your hand as Camilla the Sixth puts you through your paces again and again. You have been at this for hours, and you are not getting any better. There are several reasons for this, but the main one, you have to admit, is that you are not trying.

“Sloppy,” Camilla says as you fumble the final thrust and stick the dummy a full two inches to the right of the heart. “Do it again.”

You do it again. Thrust. Offhand strike. Parry. Thrust. The most basic manoeuvres possible, but you are still getting them wrong. This time, your blade strikes closer to the intestines than the heart.

“Princess Coronabeth,” Hect keeps her voice blank, but you have spent enough time with her in these past six weeks to see the slight stiffening of her shoulders, the fractional furrowing of her brow, the traces of tension around the eyes, and to know what they mean. “If you would do me the courtesy of pretending to make an effort, I would appreciate it.”

You toss your hair back behind your shoulder, and look down at her, although you are not entirely sure that it has the effect that you were looking for. Flushed cheeks and a sweaty forehead are hard to make intimidating, and Camilla Hect seems to be immune to fear in any case. “I am trying,” you lie.

She raises an eyebrow, just a fraction, but nevertheless it conveys her utter disinterest in you and your bullshit, for which you honestly cannot fault her, but which rankles all the same. “Then we’re done here. We’ll pick back up tomorrow morning.”

“I want to keep going,” you say, and you can hear the pout in your own voice. It is a pout that has brought men and women to their knees, that has had them begging to satisfy your every desire.

“And I said _we’re done_.” Camilla holds your gaze, those fathomless grey eyes unblinking and unphased. “We pick back up tomorrow morning, Princess.” And she turns, and walks away, leaving you standing there with your stolen sword in hand and feeling like an idiot. You watch her go, because you cannot think what else to do. The training room, with its empty weapon racks and ragged dummies and flickering fluorescent lights seemed even less appealing than usual with her gone. So, you sheath your blade, and push the hair out of your eyes, and you go to take a shower.

You let the water run hot, so that your skin turns pink and the steam fogs the glass of the shower door, swirling around the ceiling light and dulling the sheen on the antique porcelain sink. There are not many luxuries here, even compared to the rotted grandeur of Canaan House, and you have learned to relish every one. You wash your hair, and you scrub the sweat and salt from your skin, and let the heat of it bleed some of the tension from your shoulders, though it cannot quite wash away the nameless bubbling frustration that has been simmering under your skin for more days than you care to count. You make it last perhaps half an hour, and then, because it is the middle of the afternoon and you have nothing better to do, you decide to take a nap. You pull your hair back into a loose braid, because you cannot be bothered to make more of an effort to style it, and then, because, despite everything that has happened to you in the last however long, you are still Coronabeth Tridentarius, you put on your most decadent nightgown. The tantalisingly translucent charcoal silk falls to your mid-thigh, clinging to your still-damp body, and the creamy white lace at the hem is the perfect shade to emphasise the golden glow of your bronzed skin.

It is not an outfit that matches your bedroom. The dull brown dresser and shabby wardrobe, the metal of the bedframe all illuminated by the cold blue-white light of the Vit-D panel set into the wall. You were about to drop yourself down onto the bed when you heard the sound of the door’s lock clicking open. You do not have time to do more than snatch up your rapier and trident knife, and turn on your heel to face the intruder before Camilla the Sixth was on you, her twin blades flashing in the artificial light.

You have only ever seen Camilla Hect fight in earnest once, and you were quite certain then that she could have killed Marta Dyas if she had wanted to. She moves like quicksilver now as she backs you against the wall, and it is all you can do to hold her off, to parry and dodge. It is not until she takes a single step back that you manage to finally get a grip on your trident knife, to trigger the mechanism that slides out the second and third blades. Your training is inexpert, incomplete, stolen from Naberius in hours and moments when nobody would miss you, but you have always been a quick learner, and there is one move you have practised more than anything else. The disarm. Your left arm moves almost of its own accord, and you take Camilla’s right-hand blade, and you bear down on her, twisting her wrist, her still not-quite-healed arm until, with the sound of clattering steel, she is down to one weapon. She barely even blinks as she whirls away from you, and as she turns she strikes you hard on the humerus with the flat of her dagger, and as the shock travels the length of your arm, your fingers spasm and the trident knife falls to the floor beside Camilla’s lost weapon.

What happens next is mostly lost on you, because Camilla Hect off the leash is faster than your eye can quite follow, and you realise, as you find yourself with your back pressed to the wall and your breaths coming in gasps that make your chest heave, and the tip of your own rapier pressing into the soft flesh beneath your chin that up until then, she had not actually been trying.

“Not bad, Princess,” she says. “Clever, going for my weak arm.”

“Thanks,” you say. “Why the hell are you attacking me in my bedroom?”

“I wanted you to prove my point for me.” She shrugs, which has the interesting effect of pushing the tip of the blade slightly higher, just for a second, which makes your breath catch and your cheeks flush and your knees go a little wobbly. “You do know what you’re doing. You just lack discipline.”

There is something about the sound of the word _discipline_ coming out of Camilla Hect’s mouth that sends a shock of excitement shooting down your spine, where it settles in a pulsing heat between your legs. You feel your cheeks flush, and your heart beats so loudly you are sure that she must be able to hear it. The breath catches in your throat as you try to find the words for a reply, but before you can begin to form a sentence, Camilla the Sixth smiles at you. Her eyes flash with amusement, with triumph, with something you cannot identify, but which makes your knees go weak again all the same.

“Oh,” she says, as she looks you up and down, an agonisingly languorous look that makes you very suddenly aware of the way the silk of your nightgown does almost nothing at all to hide the body beneath it, outlining the soft curves of your hips, clinging to the swell of your breasts, and leaving bare entirely your thighs. She drinks in the sight of you, and you are pinned in place by her gaze as much as by the rapier in her hand. “Do you like the sound of that, Princess?”

You could lie. It would be easy. You could lie, and Camilla would walk away, and you would never know what would happen next.

When you open your mouth, when you speak, your voice low and husky, you say “yes,” and you do not feel any shame at all.

“Discipline,” she repeats, and those grey eyes are unreadable once again, though the tone of her voice has changed. She is no less calm, no less collected, but you can hear the anticipation in her voice. “Is that what you want, Princess? Is that what you want from me?”

“Yes,” you say again, because you have come this far now, and there is no sense in stepping back.

“Then ask for it,” Camilla says. You feel another rush of heat as your breath catches again, and you have to swallow twice before you can speak.

“Please,” you say, because in the beginning, it is all you can say. “Please, discipline me.”

“Princess Coronabeth,” she replies, “it would be my pleasure.” And she smirks, and you are completely and absolutely undone by it.

Camilla Hect studies you, and the minute and a half it takes her to speak again is the longest wait of your life.

“Before we begin,” she says, “some ground rules. If you want to stop, no matter why or when, you say _red_. If you need a break, you say _orange_. Do you understand me?”

“I understand,” you say, and you do not nod, because she has still not lowered the rapier.

“Good girl,” she says, and that sends another little thrill through you, another rush of arousal to join the velvety wetness in your cunt. “Now…” she tilts her head to the side as she looks you up and down again, assessing, analysing. “I think you’re overdressed, Princess. Try not to move.”

The rapier moves with lightning speed, and the whispering sound of tearing silk as she slices through the two thin straps of your nightgown, and then, in a single smooth movement swiped the blade from your hemline to neckline. The tattered fabric of the nightgown fluttered to the floor at your feet as you stood before her, naked, flushed, and unable to find even the slightest hint of shame.

“Kneel,” she orders, as she lowers the rapier for the final time, setting it aside. You do not hesitate, sinking to your knees before her.

“Very good,” she reaches out and takes you by the chin, tilting your head back so that your eyes meet hers, brushing her thumb over your lower lip in a slow, almost pensive movement. “I would have done this sooner, if I’d known it would stop you being a brat.”

Brat is a dangerous word, you think, with the way it makes your heart stutter, and your cheeks burn, and your already slick cunt grow wetter.

“I’m not-” you begin, but she silences you with a look, and with a finger laid across your lips.

“You are a brat, Princess.” She says. “You’ve been pouting and refusing to do as you’re told. That’s what brats do. Do you know what happens to brats, Princess Coronabeth? They get punished. Are you ready for that?”

“Yes,” it comes out a breathless gasp, all eager anticipation and willingness to obey.

“I’m going to spank you,” she says, as though she is commenting on the weather, but you can see reflected in her eyes the same excitement that burns in yours, the same need for this, to take control as badly as you need to surrender it. “And you’re going to say sorry for being a brat. And when I think you’re sorry enough, I might let you come.” And she taps you under the chin. “Up, and on the bed, on your hands and knees.”

You obey without hesitation as she releases her grip on you. You are so filled with anticipation, your every nerve tingling, that when you are in place, and she runs one hand, rough with a swordswoman’s calluses over the soft skin of your arse you cannot help but moan and push back against it.

“Eager,” she says, and gives you a first very gentle smack, which makes you moan again. She trails her fingers down, to dip into the velvety wetness of your cunt, a moment of sudden fulness that makes you cry out as your hands fist in the soft fabric of the comforter. She presses two fingertips against the delicate cluster of nerves inside you and the rush of sensation makes you moan again, gasping this time, and then again as she withdraws, leaving you empty and wanting as a wordless sound breaks from you like a sob.

“Very eager,” she says, as you kneel there, writhing and panting, and you are given no chance to recover yourself before the first blow lands, a stinging slap on your arse that makes you moan again.

“That’s one,” Camilla says, caressing you again. “Now, what do you say, Princess?”

The words present themselves to be spoken without you having to think at all, and you gasp them out.

“I’m sorry for being a brat,” and then, “I promise to do better.”

“Good girl,” Camilla murmurs, and then the second blow comes.

You lose track somewhere around the seventh strike, though Camilla numbers every one aloud, and you repeat every time your desperate litany, your prayer of salvation. She does not stop until your arse is burning with the heat of it, until you are certain that she must have left bruises, until there is nothing left in your head but the cocktail of pain and pleasure that makes it feel as though your every nerve is alight, so that when you rock forward beneath the force of her hand, and your nipples brush against the fabric beneath you, even that that small sensation threatens to overwhelm. You are aware of nothing but her, and you, and how desperately your cunt aches for her to touch you again, how willing you are now to obey any order she gives you, if only she will not stop.

Your breaths are almost sobs by the time the final blow lands, and you arch up into her touch as she runs a gentle hand along the length of your spine, and it takes you a moment to understand what she’s saying.

“Good girl,” she murmurs. “I’m so proud of you, Princess. You’ve taken your punishment very well. Do you know what that means, Princess? It means you get to come.” She does not wait for you to reply, she simply guides you to roll onto your back, stretching out your stiff arms and relieving the pressure on your aching knees. You hear the sound of the bedsprings, feel the pressure of her weight beside yours as she lies down next to you, look up into those eyes, those endless grey eyes, and you think you might drown in them. Camilla smiles at you, the softest curling of the corners of her mouth before she leans down and presses those beautifully bowed lips to yours, and her kiss drinks you in like she might devour you. You cannot do more than kiss her back, raise one trembling had to tangle in her hair, and hold her close as she explores you with unmerciful precision. Her hands skim your breasts, and she dwells for an agonising eternity on the gasping little moans you make beneath her as she rolls your nipples between her fingers, sending little eddies of pleasure rolling through you, drawing you ever closer to orgasm, but not enough to bring you there entirely.

She moves to your neck, kissing and nipping as you pant and moan and writhe beneath her, punctuating everything with murmured praise as she finally, finally, gives you what you need. She slips two fingers into your cunt, and your back arches as your hands fist in the sheets as she works them in and out in a tantalising rhythm. It is not enough, not yet, not until she brushes the pad of her thumb over the sensitive nub of your clit, and it is like she has thrown a switch, electrifying every nerve as you cry out and come, your hips bucking frantically against her hand.

You lie there, quivering, in the aftermath of your orgasm, slowly coming back to yourself, as Camilla strokes your hair and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. She guides you to lie on your side, your head almost in her lap where she sits, her back pressed up against the headboard of the bed, her arm curled around your shoulders.

“Better?” she asks, when your breathing is almost normal again.

“Better,” you agree, matching the smile she gives you. You are not sure what to say, now, which is not like you. It seems trite, to thank her. Inadequate.

“I’m going to hold you to that promise,” she says, before you have to make a decision. “No more being a brat, Princess. Not unless you warn me first. I can take being wound up, if I know what’s coming.”

“I _am_ sorry,” you say, because you are. “It wasn’t… I never intended to make all of this your problem,” you wave one hand around, in a lacklustre attempt to take in the room, the building, the everything that has brought the two of you here.

“It was already my problem,” Camilla says, with a little half-shrug. “I’m where I need to be, Princess.”

“Then it is even less fair of me to make you deal with my angst,” you say. You are not quite sure where your filter has gone, or what has happened to the mask you have so carefully curated for so many years. You are not sure that you care, right now, in this moment, with Camilla’s hands in your still-damp curls, and the warmth of her beside you.

“Princess,” she says, and “Corona,” and, “stop apologising.”

It is the first time she has ever called you that. It makes your heart give a little skip to hear your name on her lips.

“Even if I mean it?” you ask.

“Even then,” Camilla says. “You don’t need to. I’m here, Corona. I’m not going anywhere. Do you understand?”

And as you look up at her, and her hand finds yours, and your fingers lace together, you think you do understand, and for the first time in far longer than you can remember, you are at peace. 


End file.
